Forced To Be The Mafia's King Bride

[Sloane's POV] The knock came at exactly 2:17 a.m. Not a polite knock. Not a visitor's knock. It was a desperate, chaotic pounding that shook the heavy oak of my bedroom door, sending a violent jolt of adrenaline straight through my chest. I sat upright in bed, my pulse already racing against my ribs. The bedroom was freezing, the air thick with the sound of the heavy thunderstorm crashing against the glass outside. "Dad?" I called out, my voice raspy from sleep. The door burst open before my feet even reached the cold hardwood floor. My father staggered inside. For a split second, I didn't recognize the man standing in the doorway. Vance Ashford had always been a man of absolute poise, but tonight, his tailored suit was soaked through with rain, his tie hung loose like a noose around his neck, and a dark smear of blood stained the white cuff of his shirt. "Dad, what happened?" I scrambled out of bed, the sudden chill of the room hitting my bare skin. He didn't answer. He slammed the door shut, twisting the deadbolt with a frantic, metallic click, before crossing the room in three quick strides to grab my shoulders. His hands were shaking, damp with sweat, his fingers digging so hard into my skin it bruised. "Where is it?" he gasped, his breath coming in short, uneven, whiskey-laced drafts. I blinked, my mind struggling to keep up with the panic rolling off him. "Where is what?" "The key." The words came out ragged, barely coherent. His bloodshot eyes darted wildly around my room—scanning the wardrobe, the bookshelf, the window, as though he expected the very walls to collapse on top of us. "The key your mother left you. The assets." A physical chill crawled down my spine, freezing the blood in my veins. "What are you saying, Papa? My mother has been dead for eighteen years. Mother's things have been locked in the vault for eighteen years. Nobody talks about her anymore. Not even you." "Sloane, listen to me carefully." His grip tightened on my shoulders, and for the first time in my entire life, I saw genuine, unadulterated fear in my father's eyes. Not the stress of a bad business deal. Not the worry of a high-stakes gamble. Pure terror. "If anyone comes asking questions about your mother, you tell them nothing. Do you hear me? Nothing!" "What are you talking about? Who is coming?" My stomach twisted into a sickening knot. Before he could answer, a low, predatory engine growled out in the driveway. Both of us froze. The sound was deep, heavy, and vibrating right through the floorboards. My father’s face went completely white, the remaining life draining from his features. Then came the definitive sound of car doors opening. Several of them. Heavy, synchronized slams that cut cleanly through the roar of the downpour. Dad looked toward the window, his lips trembling as he whispered a single name. "Delvecchio." The name alone sent a shiver down my spine. Even sheltered in the Ashford estate, I had heard the whispers of the Delvecchio Syndicate—stories of a ruthless, blood-soaked empire ruled by a man who didn't negotiate. A man who didn't take payment plans. “Mr. Ashford!” A sharp, urgent voice came from the doorway. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open to reveal Mrs. Hathaway, our elderly housekeeper, her hair slipping from its pins, her uniform apron twisted. "They’ve breached the main gates, sir. They’re in the courtyard." "Take her," my father snapped, his voice turning sharp, aggressive, and completely unrecognizable as he physically shoved me toward her, his palms leaving damp streaks on my sleeves. "Take Sloane to the old study in the East wing. Lock the door. No matter what you hear, Mrs. Hathaway, do not let her out." "Dad, no! Tell me what's going on!" I cried out, but he was already turning away, adjusting his ruined jacket, trying to pull a fake cloak of authority over his trembling frame. "Go, Sloane!" he yelled, looking like a total stranger. Mrs. Hathaway grabbed my wrist with a surprisingly iron grip, pulling me out into the grand, echoing hallway. I stumbled along in my nightgown, my heart hammering violently against my ribs as she dragged me down the winding corridors toward the isolated East wing. My steps echoed frantically against the marble as she pulled me deeper into the uninhabited wing of the house, the grand chandeliers overhead casting long, swaying shadows across the walls. The moment we reached the old study, Mrs. Hathaway pushed me inside and closed the heavy oak door. The sharp, heavy slide of the deadbolt echoed through the floorboards, locking me in darkness. "Mrs. Hathaway, open this door!" I pounded my fists against the wood, the skin of my knuckles cracking against the grain. "You can't lock me in here!" "Stay quiet, child," her muffled, trembling voice came through the wood. "And pray." Her footsteps faded, leaving me in absolute, suffocating silence. I backed away from the door, my eyes sweeping the shadows of the room. The air felt too thick to breathe. I couldn't just sit here like a lamb waiting for the slaughter. Moving purely on adrenaline, I crept toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the front courtyard, pulling the heavy velvet curtain back just a fraction of an inch. Through the gray curtain of blinding rain, the courtyard looked like a war zone. Three massive, midnight-black SUVs had pinned my father's sports car against the fountain. A dozen men dressed in identical black suits stood in a perfect perimeter, completely unfazed by the freezing storm. Across from them, our estate's security guards held their weapons with visibly trembling hands. A man stepped out from the passenger side and opened the rear door, holding an umbrella above his head. Another man stepped out into the rain. Even from the second storey, his presence felt like a physical weight pressing against the glass. He was exceptionally tall, broad-shouldered, and he moved with a cold, controlled military grace, his flawless tailored suit making him look dangerously out of place in the storm. He didn’t look down at the gravel. He didn’t even shield his face from the freezing downpour. Without waiting for another second, he rushed outside. For the first time in my life, I saw him bow his head to another man. His mouth moved rapidly as he spoke, hands raised in a desperate gesture of surrender. The stranger didn't stop walking. He listened for perhaps three seconds before lifting his left, gloved hand. The courtyard froze in place. One of his soldiers stepped forward, smoothly transferring a sleek, matte-black handgun into the stranger's palm. The movement was smooth. Practiced. Lethal. Whatever strength remained in him collapsed instantly. The stranger calmly c****d his head to one side, observing him like an unfamiliar insect. Then— BANG! The shot exploded through the storm. A scream tore from one of our security guards as he collapsed to the wet ground, clutching his thigh. Before the echo died— BANG! A second guard dropped beside him. Chaos broke out instantly. The remaining estate security scrambled backward, throwing their hands into the air and dropping their rifles into the mud. The man in black simply lowered the weapon to his side, his posture completely undisturbed, as if he had done nothing more significant than sign a ledger. All color drained from my father’s face. The man in black lowered the gun with terrifying calm, as though he had merely signed a document. I choked back a scream, my hands flying to my mouth as I watched two of our family guards crumple onto the gravel courtyard. Blood spread beneath them, dark and thick, disappearing into the rainwater rushing between the stones. It wasn’t a firefight or even a struggle—it was a flawless execution. A message. Down below, the tall man slowly lifted his head. Through the fractured glass and sheets of rain, his gaze found my window with unsettling precision. My breath stopped entirely. The distance should have made it impossible to see me behind the dark drapes, but for one frozen second, those charcoal-dark eyes seemed to pin me directly to the floorboards. Then he looked away. His attention returned to my father. Dad was on his knees now, his expensive suit soaked through with rain and mud. His hands were clasped together, trembling as he begged. The stranger stood over him silently for a moment. Then, with measured steps, he closed the final distance and crouched in front of my father. Not a submissive gesture—just enough to bring his face level with the broken man groveling in the dirt. He placed a heavy, leather-gloved hand on my father’s shoulder. It looked almost casual. Almost friendly. Then his lips moved, whispering something directly into my father's ear. I couldn't hear the words through the glass, but I saw the physical reaction. The last remaining trace of life drained from my father’s face. His eyes widened into white circles, his jaw dropping as a silent, strangled sob shook his shoulders. The stranger stood back up, a faint, cold tilt appearing at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't a smile of amusement; it was the quiet satisfaction of a man who had just collected exactly what he came for. He gave a slight nod to his men, turned on his heel, and stepped back into the rear of the armored vehicle. The door clicked shut. The three SUVs surged forward in perfect unison, their heavy tires throwing gravel into the air as they cleared the iron gates and dissolved into the blackness of the highway. The house fell into a dead, suffocating silence. I stumbled backward, my knees striking the edge of the mahogany desk. My hands were shaking so violently I had to press them hard against my stomach to force them to stop. They were gone, but the room still felt thick with the heavy, metallic scent of rain and copper.